Thanks to John Hawkins of RightWingNews for chatting with me about my new book.
“Kathy Shaidle’s Confessions of A Failed Slut was a short, but excellent read that I’d highly recommend. After reading it, I just had to interview her.”
PLUS: my NEW interview with Redmond at the Better Red Than Dead podcast is now up.
Scroll down to the bottom of the post and hit “Play in popup” or “Download” to listen.
We talk about the book, but also the broader issue of how conservatives and libertarians can and should engage the culture at large.
Elsewhere, Aaron “Captain Capitalism” Clarey posted a thoughtful review of Confessions of a Failed Slut:
“Normally such a dire and macabre topic would beget frowns and head shaking, but Kathy’s realism, indifference, bluntness, and ability to make hilarious analogies on par with Dennis Miller will have you laughing your ass off every 2nd page.”
Confessions of a Failed Slut remains in the Top 100 in Amazon Books (not “just” Kindle books) for “Women’s Studies” and “Gender Studies”!(?)
TCM Saturday night: ‘The Iron Curtain’ (1948), about Igor Gouzenko, was even filmed on location in Canada
Soviet sympathizers attempted unsuccessfully to disrupt location shooting in Ottawa, where Fox captured exteriors during a cold Canadian winter.
Pickets also turned up at the Roxy Theatre in New York to protest the film’s preview. Soviet sympathizers, liberals, conservatives and members of the Catholic War Veterans mobbed the streets until dispersed by the police.
In truth, there was no preview for them to protest. The Roxy had canceled it six weeks earlier, but word had not reached any of the concerned parties.
Oddly, one of the most controversial aspects of the film was its score. At one point, an official at the embassy explains that loud music is played in the decoding room to prevent people from eavesdropping on their work. Composer Alfred Newman, the head of the 20th Century-Fox music department, pulled that music from the works of Dmitri Shostakovich, Sergei Prokofiev, Aram Khachaturyan and Dominik Miskovsky, all of whom had been censured by the Soviet government for “formalism,” the charge leveled at artists whose work was not seen as supporting the Soviet state.
Although they could not have seen the film, the four signed a letter complaining that their music had been stolen for what they called an “outrageous picture.” Historians have theorized that the Stalinist government forced them to sign the letter.
“After 36 years of secrecy, Igor Gouzenko’s testimony before the Kellock-Taschereau Royal Commission of 1946 is made public. The testimony fills 6,000 pages and reveals details of a spy network operating in Canada.
But a new NFB-CBC documentary compares the handling of the Gouzenko affair by the RCMP and the Mackenzie King government to a comic opera, full of bungling, mistakes and misunderstanding:”
Most women would be happier at home raising a family, and many are just going through the motions by choosing careers. There. I said it.
Although Eddie Cochran was only 21 when he died, he left a lasting mark as a rock and roll pioneer. Cochran zeroed in on teenage angst and desire with such classics as “C’mon Everybody,” “Something Else,” “Twenty Flight Rock” and “Summertime Blues.” A flashy stage dresser with a tough-sounding voice, Cochran epitomized the sound and the stance of the Fifties rebel rocker.
But he was also a virtuoso guitarist, overdubbing parts like Les Paul even on his earliest singles and playing with an authority that led music journalist Bruce Eder to pronounce him “rock’s first high-energy guitar hero, the forerunner to Pete Townshend, Jimmy Page, Duane Allman and, at least in terms of dexterity, Jimi Hendrix.” Cochran was also proficient on piano, bass and drums.
There’s planning and “being prepared,” and then there’s just plain stupid…
I have to report mixed results. Sure, it’s healthier to be mostly standing. If you’re not used to it, though, it’s a bitch on your knees and calf muscles. Allow for a period—at my age (the largest even number that can’t be expressed as the sum of two nonprime odd numbers in two or more ways) it’s about a month—of getting used to the darn thing.
And face it: You’re never going to catch the zeitgeist. Just as I was congratulating myself on having caught up with all the bright young kids, I started reading news stories about treadmill desks. I give up.
My column on BoyfriendTwins hits the 100 comment mark.
I’m still working on it…
Like a lot of film noir leads, William Holden’s Joe Gillis begins Sunset Boulevard rather down on his luck, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable of putting together decent outfit. It’s enduring proof, perhaps, that the definition of “schlubby” has come a long way since the 1950s, when walking around town in a buttoned-up dress shirt and light blazer would have apparently been a sign of prevailing misfortune rather than taste. Would that we all could dress so sloppily.
Incidentally, Esquire is correct:
People think James Dean popularized the leather jacket in Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without a Cause, when in fact he wore a far less iconic red windbreaker in that film.
The leather-jacketed young man actually predated even The Wild One (1953); the original was Farley Granger, in another Ray film, They Live By Night (1948).
Of course I did, but not this chick, who goes on:
So what better way to get people to stop crapping in public than with a fun, cutesy music video [produced by UNICEF] with a catchy song? That’s the ticket!
In the video, called “Poo Party,” a bunch of people are haunted by errant turds with flies disgustingly swarming everywhere, until they finally build a gigantic potty that all of the poops are lured into — effectively clearing India’s public spaces of human fecal matter.
On the other hand, TCM does an extraordinary job of connecting the past to the present. Take that showing tonight of The Remains of the Day. It’s followed by a couple of movies from 1935 and 1936, If You Could Only Cook and My Man Godfrey, respectively, that explore the themes of upstairs/downstairs class structures in a much more lighthearted way from another time, though actually taking place at about the same point in history as the story in The Remains of the Day.
At the end of his post on the first anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombing, Mark Steyn writes:
Like the photographs of Mrs. Tsarnaeva then and now, these are stories of dis-assimilation, of secularized Easterners who in the vacuum of Western multiculturalism search for identity and find a one-stop shop in Islamic imperialism.
Either that, or it’s the local gym. Like Lors and Tamerlan, the Aussie sheikh and the Canuck terrorist were boxers.
For African-Americans, boxing used to be the way out of the ghetto. For Western Muslims, boxing is apparently the way out of Cambridge, Mass. — and straight into jihad.
Earlier this morning, a loyal 5FF reader sent me this link; his subject line was “why is it that some terrorists look like younger versions of Justin [Trudeau]?”
Frankly, I don’t see the resemblance in the link above.
But that Boston bomber that Rolling Stone put on the cover is another matter.
For several weeks, she was blindfolded, confined to a smelly closet, tormented, periodically raped, and subjected to a coarse Maoist style program of indoctrination and re-education. (…)
The leader Donald “Cinque” DeFreeze and the others propagandized and interrogated her constantly, explaining that “Amerikkka” was a racist and evil society, repeatedly calling her a privileged “bourgeoise bitch” and her father a “pig” of the “corporate fascist state.”
Leading Ed Driscoll to quip:
So pretty much like life at the average elite university…
This guy’s name is Kat Callahan and he’s memorized all the crazy terms these people use like cis scum and bio female. They seem to have it all figured out until this “respected” rapist came along and fucked up the whole system. If he has a vagina, what did he do to this chick, scissor her to death? I know we’re not allowed to ask questions but this is apparently rape. That’s kind of a big deal.
The Leveson Inquiry declaration of support signed by all those London luvvies like Emma Thompson, Tom Stoppard, Maggie Smith, Bob Geldof and Ian McKellen is the stage that comes after that House of Commons Science and Technology Committee — when the most creative spirits in our society all suddenly say: ‘Ooh, yes, please, state regulation, bring it on!’
Presented with a script that contained three ‘fucks’ and an explicit reference to anal sex, he’d inform the producer that he would be permitted two ‘crikeys’ and a hint of heavy petting.
In 1968, he lost his censorship powers, and the previously banned Hair, of all anodyne trifles, could finally be seen on the London stage: this is the dawning of the age of Aquarius.
Only four and a half decades after the censor’s departure, British liberals are panting for the reimposition of censorship under a new ‘Royal Charter’.
This is the aging of the dawn of Aquarius: new blasphemy laws for progressive pieties.